


Terrible Neighbors

by blackkat



Series: Stupid MadaTobi AUs [12]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Aggressive Pining, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Frenemies, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: For the prompt "You’re the neighbor that keeps their curtains open, even when changing, and I can’t talk to you without blushing."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red_Hot_Holly_Berries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Hot_Holly_Berries/gifts).



> Hope this can help you feel better, Holly! <3

Madara's neighbor is the most infuriating man to ever exist.

(Also one of the most attractive, but the fact that Madara can say that with absolute certainty is _part of the problem, damn it._ )

Konoha is hot in the summer, and Madara respects that it is goddamn _awful_ to live in the part of town they do, where trees are few and far between despite the best efforts of the local garden club. And he admires his neighbor’s drive to exercise no matter the conditions, but—

But if he keeps sauntering naked through his bedroom without closing the curtains like anyone with _goddamn human decency_ Madara is going to march over there and—and…

Well. If past meeting are anything to go by, he’s going to turn redder than a boiled lobster, chuck whatever he’s carrying at Tobirama’s stupidly attractive face, and then hightail it back to his house. Where he will _definitely_ not hover in his living room with his _own_ curtains open just as Tobirama gets back from his run.

Madara puts his head down on the table and groans.

Seated across from him with a cup of tea, Mito snorts delicately—Madara has never understood how she can do that—and says with devastating mildness, “You know, there is a solution to this. Two of them, even.”

“Witch,” Madara tells her, though being face-down on the table probably robs it of some of its effect. “We’re not even friends. You're only here to laugh at my pain, so you don’t get to have opinions.”

Mito doesn’t even try to deny it. Madara had declared Hashirama his rival back in grade school, but the moment they met in high school Mito flew up the ranks to settle at his greatest nemesis. It’s a relationship of mutual but vaguely cooperative loathing.

“You’re such an idiot it’s hard not to,” she tells him, cheerfully cutting. “I'm surprised they haven’t turned your life into one of those gloriously terrible afternoon soaps.” Her cup settles onto the wood with a polite clink at the perfectly acceptable volume, no more and no less, and she rises gracefully to her feet.

Madara doesn’t watch her as she steps away from the table. It is, in hindsight, a rather appalling mistake.

“Leaving so soon?” he bites out, keeping his forehead pressed to the wood. “Good riddance.”

There's a delicate pause, undercut by Mito’s most deadly killing sweetness, and then the click of her kitten heels across the kitchen floor. They're muffled as she steps into the living room, and Madara is so thankful that she’s leaving him to brood in peace that he doesn’t bother paying attention to the rustle of her sundress.

Mistake number two, and equally dreadful.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Mito says cheerfully, and Madara's head jerks up automatically, horror filling him at that sweet, innocent tone. He scrambles to stand, but trips over his briefcase and gets tangled in the legs of the chair, crashing to the floor on his face like a giant, furious toddler.

“Witch, _don’t you dare_ ,” he snarls, fighting desperately to get back to his feet.

Mito laughs, bright and perfect and undercut with the vicious mockery that only Madara ever seems to hear. “What a silly place to leave your keys, Uchiha,” she tells him, and Madara's blood runs cold.

“ _NOT MY FERRARI_!” he shrieks, unintentionally hitting a pitch he hasn’t since puberty. Scrambling upright, he hurls himself into the main room, but Mito is already breezing out the door in a flash of red to match his beloved car. He bolts after her, but the witch is faster than she should be in heels and has already made it halfway down the walk.

And it just so happens that Madara's terrible (and terribly attractive) neighbor is coming up it.

“Tobirama!” Mito says brightly, apparently unfazed by the fact that Tobirama is shirtless and dripping sweat, chest heaving like he’s been doing far more indecent things than just—

Madara forcibly drags his mind from the gutter it’s fallen into and snarls, “Uzumaki! _Give me back the damned keys_.”

Mito, of course, just tosses a sly smirk over her shoulder and drops Madara's keychain into a bewildered Tobirama’s hands. She leans up to kiss his cheek, offers Madara a fox-smug smirk, and saunters down the sidewalk.

Tobirama blinks after her, visibly comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t want to know, and turns to Madara. Who can, unfortunately, already feel his face heating up like a spontaneous third-degree burn. “Yours?” he asks, dangling them in the air between them.

“Of course they're mine!” Madara stalks up to him and snatches them out of his hand. The fact that his tongue is under control is a good sign, but the sight of bare muscles slick with sweat has the remainder of his blood that’s not coloring his face rapidly heading south. “And don’t you have any decency?! This is a neighborhood with families! Put on a damn shirt!”

One white brow slides upwards judgmentally. “I,” Tobirama says, tone ice-cool with a cutting edge, “am a teacher, Madara. And if you’re so worried about the morals of the community, try not to stare into my bedroom at any opportunity. Should you wish to see it more closely, say the word. I’d be happy to give you a private tour.”

He brushes past a gaping, spluttering Madara and stalks up the walk, vanishing into his house with a slam of the door.

Much, much too late, Madara shrieks, “I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR DAMN BEDROOM, SENJU!”

A woman walking with her son eyes him warily and crosses to the other side of the street, whispering something insistent to her child. Madara feels his face flush to the point he knows he must be practically purple and bolts back inside, clutching his car keys like the hollow victory they are.

When he storms across the living room, Tobirama’s bedroom curtains are _still open_ , and the man is just in the process of sliding his jogging shorts down over cut hipbones.

Madara trips over the couch and just misses braining himself on the coffee table.


End file.
